


Lover I Don't Have To Love

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a rainy afternoon at the office and Izaya is very, very bored. That gives him ideas. And not good ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lover I Don't Have To Love

“now another bad idea gets through”  
the wallflowers, _letters from the wasteland_

 

Maybe it's boredom.

Maybe it's frustration.

Maybe it's the knots on the muscles of her back, all tense where neck meets shoulder.

It's raining. It's one of those really boring rainy afternoons when there's nothing to do in the office but he has no real desire to go outside. He's been doing a crossword in English but he's been filling up the boxes with every swear word he knows, and some he's not that sure are swear words. He is that bored.

On the other hand Namie seems to be feeling the same and that's a slightly distracting spectacle: the way she looks out of the window at a grey and silver Shinjuku and she sighs and puts her hands inside her pockets and then she takes them out and then she sighs again, as if Izaya is not there.

She knows he is there and the moment he stands up and walks behind her, like an experiment, Namie's body becomes an altogether different animal; an alert one, consciously controlling her breathing, the beginning of a frown, the way her hands are resting at her sides, not in her pockets, Izaya can read it all in the glass reflection as he reaches Namie's side. The glass is dirty with rain. It's really shitty outside, raining not hard but insidiously, and Izaya thinks he can hear the cracking of electricity outside somewhere and the monsters roaring free in the streets. The monsters of this city. Izaya gets distracted, thinking how much he wishes he could be one of them, he looks out, Namie in the corner of his eye, thinks about her brother – _her brother_ and that nagging burning like hatred but nothing so worrying as hatred at the bottom of his stomach that he swallows down or ignores – about how he can almost understand him, he thinks about Celty's head, he thinks about how he is going to kill Shizuo for sure next time they meet, the usual, monsters, _monsters_ , outside it's full of monsters and here inside it's all so boring.

So boring he decides to draw his hand across the back of Namie's neck, brush her hair aside and put his mouth against that spot of tense muscle and shared boredom.

If everything goes wrong he can still pass it as a joke – _it's a joke it's a joke it's a joke it is a joke_ – and laugh it off. Monsters, monsters, and how he'd like to be one of them, this line of thought is heading nowhere –nowhere useful, nowhere fun– and Namie's skin is surprising under his lips so he stays with that idea instead.

She jumps. Now he can hear the noise of electricity cracking right here, right now. She turns around and they are standing closer now than when he was kissing her. Kissing her? Nothing so conceited, he's barely brushed his lips against her skin, you can hardly count it as a triumph just yet.

`What are you doing?´

`Such a boring day,´ he yawns, as if he is uninterested in either the proximity of their bodies and the murderous glare of the woman in front of him. `I know a great game to pass the time.´

Has he tried this one before? He doesn't think he has. Namie looks about to protest – he knows all the lines, tries to guess which one, _it's all a game_ , you see – but then something in her eyes and then she hesitates – _SHE HESITATES!_ – like she is curious – _LIKE SHE IS CURIOUS!_ – and the something in her eyes yes it's that curiosity. Izaya decides he needs to live up to that and take the small window of opportunity so before Namie and her open mouth form the words of a protest he knows well (whichever she chooses this time) he takes her black hair in one hand.

She tilts her head, offering her throat...

 _offering_

  
He is not about to lose any time. He presses one open-palmed hand against her hip and makes her walk back until they are against the desk.

`You really are that bored, uh?´ He comments when she lets herself be pushed.

He twists his fingers, pulling her hair gently but defiantly. Namie grunts – yes, women can grunt, _how ungraceful of her_ and Izaya almost smiles about it except that Namie is kissing him already. She is kissing him. Izaya smiles anyway, teeth against teeth and tender muscle.

He takes a step forward but there's no space, just his thigh against hers now. Izaya is not sure how hard he is until he finds himself pressed against Namie and his erection settles itself against her leg.

She goes along with it.

She presses the inside of her thigh against Izaya's leg. She is going along with it. That wasn't in Izaya's master plan at all buy hey, good for him.

He wonders why today of all days, why now? It's not like this is the first time he's made this offer.

Maybe she is just as bored as he is.

Maybe it's the tension on the back of her neck, the tendons standing out, and how Izaya would undo those knots, he flatters himself.

She kisses him. And Izaya can hear the chain of self-accusations and compromises going on in Namie's head or maybe he just imagines it, or maybe he just wants to think they're there, it turns him on. The set of choices that led Namie to this moment of being the one kissing Izaya and not the other way around: the rain, the sickly winter light, the fact that he had no work for her to do today.

What is Izaya's excuse then?

He doesn't have one. But at least he is pretty certain Namie is not going to ask him for one. If pushed – who would really push Izaya for answers? – he'd probably say this: _Entertaiment_. He'd probably say it in English or do a little dance. This is entertaining, that is what. Does one need another reason?

He holds down her arms. He looks like he is about to kiss her. He doesn't kiss her. Maybe he wants to. He puts his mouth under her earlobe and sucks at a spot he knows to be sensitive, even in frigid bitches like Namie it should work for sure. It works.

He digs fingernails into her wrist while he tries to map out a plan to get her to the couch without breaking the delicate spell here. Don't get him wrong, he'd love to fuck her against the desk, but he is not reading that mood right now. Maybe next time. Ha, next time. _Never lose that sense of humour, old man_ he tells himself. It's quite the conversation.

With one arm around her waist he pushes her along the length of the desk until they turn a corner. They almost tumble, Namie walking backwards and Izaya too preoccupied with kissing her neck, a moment of feet and knees and legs bumping awkwardly, a moment of almost-comedy.

`Watch out,´ she practically barks.

That's the first thing she's said since this started to get serious ( _it's a game it's a game it's a game_ ). Izaya grabs her shoulders and pushes her back, bossing her around until they reach the edge of the couch. _Boss boss boss_. Technically he is her boss and there is a history and a culture and a cliché in the premise. Technically he is her boss and that goes straight to Izaya's cock. _My what a little perv you are_ , he compliments his own urges.

`Uncomfortable,´ Namie comments of the situation but she is already stretching as he gestures her.

Namie spread on the couch like a fresh painting to behold. Izaya runs his hand along her thigh possessively and up, skimming over her skirt and her stomach and coming under her right breast. He stops kissing her neck to take in the sight of his hand over her breast. Why would God give such a mean-spirited woman such a wonderful bosom is a strong argument for atheism, if you ask Izaya. You don't need to ask he's telling you anyway. Unless God was punishing him by containing such a fucking annoying personality in such a hot body. Let's face it – and Izaya sighs against the hollow of her neck – if Namie didn't have a _fucking annoying personality_ he wouldn't be like this right now, humping her on the couch like a teenager. Her knee bends, digging between his legs (is she doing that on purpose? _I bet she is_ ).

They got here pretty quickly – just one moment ago it was all rain and boredom – and Izaya likes the idea of not taking their clothes off. It's not that he had a plan (though he always has a plan) but that he has some ideas. His hand leaves Namie's breast for the time being and he stands on his knees, giving her a bit of room, as he waves two fingers in front of her face, Izaya's sudden dark and viscous glare making it impossible to misread his intentions. Namie holds his gaze, defiant, of course, but after a couple of seconds of stalemate she takes his wrist and brings his fingers to her mouth. That is quite something. Izaya didn't think it would affect him so much, looking down and seeing Namie wet his fingers slowly, almost up to the knuckle, running her tongue underneath his skin. He could kiss her, properly kiss her now. It lasts only a moment but he is sorry to let that image go. Compared to that the fact of him slipping his hand under her skirt and pushing her underwear aside and fucking her with his fingers feels almost underwhelming. Except –

except the noise she's just made

except his fingers already wet with her spit

except the warmth

He doesn't want to spend too long on this, just enough to get her ready. He doesn't want to spend too much time on her needs – she might get cocky. Izaya forces himself to draw away.

Silence when he does. Not even her breathing. The noise of water against the window. It's raining harder now. Namie looks at him, her mouth half-open, but her eyes hard, as if telling Izaya _if you think I'm going to beg you have another thing coming_. He would love to see her beg, that's true. He moves. He lies on top of her with all his weight now, testing the waters, trying out the most adequate position, spreading her legs until he can manoeuvre between them. He still believes Namie is going to kick him off her any second now.

`You are heavy.´

`It's all complains with you today, isn't it?´

But Izaya shifts his weight, retreats, if only so that he can half-sit on the couch and unzip his pants.

His hands are quick under her skirt again and in a moment he pulls her underwear down without much ceremony or care. He is already doubling over Namie when a knee comes to rest against his chest, blocking him.

`What the hell do you think you're doing?´

Izaya gives her a quizzical look. It takes him a moment to anticipate what she's going to say and then he mentally kicks himself for being so fucking slow. The migration of blood to southern regions, ah the joys of being a man, etcetera, he cradles her knee in his hands and feels almost tenderness, not towards Namie but towards the whole scene. Humans and their needs and their vulnerable moments.

`I'm not going to let that –´ she points at Izaya's open fly, ` _anywhere_ near me without protection.´

The way she says “anywhere”, though Izaya is sure she doesn't mean it like that, gives him all sorts of ideas, a very clear deja vu of things never to come, no way: another rainy afternoon silver and grey, his hands in Namie's hair pulling her down, the floor of the office cold against her knees, and Namie's mouth... He snaps out of it, tending to more pressing matters. He groans, Namie's sudden common sense ruining the mood.

`I bet a woman like you – ´ even Izaya doesn't like that tone. He bits his tongue right at the tip and tries again: `A prepared woman like you, I bet you are on the pill.´

A string of odd images in Izaya's mind, with an opposite effect to the previous, a sharp bite of unwarranted jealousy: Namie always ready. _Ready for what?_ The conspicuous question. The answer he has at the ready, like a silver-finished pistol in a cowboy movie.

She gives him a look that is not answer at all and Izaya feels relieved she's left enough room to fill in the gaps.

`Well, I could...´

Well he could...

He is about to make that particular offer but another string of images assault him – images of:  


 _coming over namie's stomach  
his come all over her stomach  
her fingers over her stomach  
her fingers dipping in his come  
her fingers brought to her mouth  
her mouth..._

  
The pictures are so vivid so embarrassingly precise that Izaya is paralysed, gripped by his own shame at their intensity.

Namie shakes him out of it.

`I have no idea where you've been. As if I would risk it.´

This is a dangerous line they're walking, quicksands Izaya is walking into, but the fact that she is _talking about it_ , giving it consideration, as if this was normal, as if it was going to happen, gives him some encouragement to push and prod. He is also happy that he once decided to stuff all the drawers in his office with condoms as a prank because he knows how much Namie loves to snoop around when he is not there and he had to _teach her_ , and now it's a forgotten reminder of that months-ago joke that he is picking up and he blesses his own god-like intelligence. He loves himself so much sometimes, _you brilliant bastard_.

`What are you smiling for?´

`Nothing,´ he replies, diligent, _of course nothing_ , there's no need to be smug, Izaya thinks, now that he has Namie Yagiri pinned under him, her panties on the floor, her breathing laboured and uneven, that mouth of hers slightly open in anticipation. A wet noise as rubber snaps against flesh. _Nothing_ , he mutters into Namie's mouth as he starts fucking her without prelude.

Izaya grabs the side of the couch for leverage. She is so tight at first he has to kick one foot against the floor. So wonderfully tight. He knew that. He knew she was going to be like this. Even her cunt is in denial. Even her cunt is a challenge. Izaya wants to tell her this.

`Do you like dirty talk, Namie-chan?´

`Oh God,´ she replies but it's not _a good “oh god”_ , it's the kind of of “oh god, yes, please, izaya, right there” that he'd want to hear right now. It's a despondent “oh god”, the verbal equivalent of Namie rolling her eyes at him.

So that's a no on the dirty talk subject. Pity, Izaya thinks, betting he could dirty talk her under the table. He would make her blush. Oh well, some other time – _ha!_ goes the insistent, self-pitying voice in his head. He puts his fingers under Namie's knee and lifts her leg gently, changing his angle, pushing all his weight in. Ah that seems to work. She makes a small noise – a damp, hitched, flesh-red noise. For a moment Izaya thinks he might just come from that noise and how embarrassing would that be so he slows down, pushing almost all the way in and keeping still for a second before giving one last, short thrust. He repeats this four or five times, very slowly, until he can feel Namie follow him when he draws out, wait for him when he pushes back in.

It's a lazy, intent rhythm he's building, somehow matching the weather outside.

She closes her eyes.

Izaya doesn't like that. He turns somber in a moment. He knows he shouldn't but somehow can't stop his own twisted ideas from running the show. He grabs her jaw between thumb and index and jerks her head up, making her look. _Look at me_. His own voice, raw and darkened, surprises him:

`I bet your dear brother doesn't know how to do this. He looks like the type to be completely useless in the sack –´

He rotates his hips ever so slightly. Namie narrows her eyes, her brow a little furred now. That in Namie-speak, in Namie-body-language is quite the victory. Izaya is quite confident. Not because he has been given that many good references by women he's been with. He is confident because he loves bluffing. He's basically built his life around it.

`Shut up! Don't you dare talk of my adorable little brother –´

He can't stand it. He bends until he is lying his weight on top of her again, her legs at his sides. He can't really allow another word. He kisses her. It's too much. He tells himself he won't let it get to him. _I won't let it get to me. I won't let it get to me. I won't let it get to me_. Funny how mantras can sound pathetic in your head. _Funny_. There's nothing funny about it. But he tries to find humour at the back of his throat as he kisses her. He vibrates against her. Now he pauses to memorize her taste. There's a thin film of sweat covering Namie's forehead. Another triumph. Her hand balled into a fist, the wrist pushing against Izaya's side, the blood-beat pushing against his hip, skin pulsating, Izaya wanting to scream IF YOU WANT TO HOLD ON TO ME, HOLD ON TO ME! but he can't really say that, can he. If this is a game – and everything is – Izaya's been given a shitty hand but damn him if he isn't going to make the best of it. He's a great player, no matter what the game. He's a great player, specially if he invented the game. He _is_ a great player and Namie doesn't know the rules. There's sweat on Namie's forehead but Izaya's skin is cold as anything.

Namie clenches around him, as if trying to punish him for something. Izaya curses under his breath, drawing fingernails across her stomach as he holds on to her.

Surely there are easier ways to get this kind of kick, is what Izaya is thinking. Alternatives. Hookers, for one, must be easier to handle than this, and much much _nicer_. He looks down at Namie, she still looks angry at him even through her soft moans. The incestuous mental bitch. But that almost becomes a term of endearment in his head. Now he goes fast – as fast as the limited room for movement he has on the couch lets him, and now he wishes they were doing this on a bed and without these many clothes getting in the way, it's such a mess. He wonders if he can make her say his name but that becomes a futile attempt. The only sound he can draw from her now are those short, sharp gasps matching his every thrust perfectly. That pleases him well enough.

She pulls at his black sweater. Probably ruined by now. Izaya doesn't mind, decides he'll keep the sweater not as a memento but something less sentimental, some day in the near future he will flaunt the damage piece of clothing in front of Namie and remind her of what she did “ _in the throats of passion_ ”. Yes that's good. A good turn of phrase. Watch Namie bite her lip under those words. Watch Namie bite her lip under his weight now.

Watch her.

` _Namie_ – ´

That's a weird voice. Did he say that? Oh well, it's a good thing nobody is keeping score then –

(he is keeping score)

He puts it down to the way Namie is stroking the back of his neck with her fingers, hand tangled in Izaya's hair and who knew Namie would do such a thing, such a gentle, intimate thing.

She comes before he does. Izaya decides to be _gracious_ about this. It's really hard. He wants to gloat. He wants to tell Namie how gorgeous she looks turning her head to one side and whimpering into the cushion. He wants to say to her _maybe you jerk off thinking about that asshole little brother of yours but I bet you don't come like I've just made you come and I bet he's never seen the kind of face you are making now_. But that would be being possessive. Izaya Orihara never considered himself one of those. Stop that now, he tells himself. Stop thinking about that. He's never been fond of self-reflection. Self-adoration, yes, but that's all. Focus, he tells himself. Yes, focus. He rides Namie's orgasm into his own. Her cunt happy and easy and welcoming to him like she herself never has been. Her arms now slack around his shoulders, falling to his sides almost tenderly, fingernails stroking through the fabric of his sweater, it's almost too nice and _nice_ is no good, it shouldn't be, but _nice_ makes him come with a curious adolescent noise that would make him laugh if it weren't so ridiculous.

He doesn't want to leave this place. He doesn't want to pull out. His face buried in the crook of Namie's neck, his chin resting on her collarbone, it's warm here, warm from his own breathing and Namie's skin. His cock feels wonderfully useless like this, soft and heavy still inside her. Izaya doesn't want to go just yet but he has the feeling that it will be hold against him if he stays.

The light has changed in a moment. Still ugly winter afternoon light, but tinted in purple and yellow from the street signs.

Now his fingers are sticky from disposing of the condom. What a sad post-coitum casualty, it flooded Izaya with loneliness seeing it like that, filled and spent, when he tied a knot at the end and threw it in the bin. Next time – _still with that? psst._ but he doesn't want to argue with his inner self right now– he hopes for a different outcome, pun intended.

Izaya pulls up his pants in the _seediest_ manner he can think of, something straight out of a 80-page dirty crime novel.

`Well, that was really what they call a quickie.´

`Don't sound so proud about it.´

He sits on the couch by her side again. He is proud. This is what he had in mind, after all. _Fuck Namie_ , that pure, unadulterated idea in all its sleazy splendour. He has a lot of ideas of the same spirit.

`Well, that was a lot of fun,´ he declares cheerfully. `We should do it again another time.´

`Mmm,´ is all Namie has to say to that.

But her leg comes up to rest on his lap, across his knees, child-like and companionable. Izaya touches her shin. Her underwear still on the floor and he can see the skin of the inside of her thigh still wet. Izaya lets out a heavy breath.

The rain doesn't seem to be stopping any time soon. Somewhere he can still hear an electric silver noise. He still thinks about the monsters in the streets. Namie seems to settle in the couch, grabbing the cushions, against him; she leaves her right leg there, caging him, and her left knee digging into his hip – he is not comfortable but she is, and Izaya chooses to wait a couple of minutes until he disturbs that balance. She tilts her head, she rests her cheek against the curve of the couch. She looks up at Izaya with narrow, sleepy eyes. He is not quite sure what that glance means, the one Namie gives him before closing her eyes. Her body relaxes, trusting. Trusting.

Izaya runs his fingers, softly, up and down her leg until he feels her breathing slow down, even. She snores, lightly. Izaya thinks that like that, asleep, no one who sees Namie would suspect what a twisted, mean woman she is. She turns on her side, both legs on Izaya's lap now, nudging against his stomach, searching for his warmth.

The scene almost softens him. Like this, Namie doesn't look that bad.

Maybe she is not that bad after all, he thinks.

Maybe neither of them is.


End file.
